Haunting
by SquigglyDot
Summary: Guerrero gets hurt and Chance doesn't know how to strike back...A short PWP, forgive me for the stupidity


Haunting

By: SquigglyDot

First attempt at Human Target, so it is short and PWP... cuz I'm sorta dumb like that... ^^;;; I just like the idea of Guerrero getting hurt and Chance being all bad llama

Disclaimer: I own nothing... too their respective owner

Haunting

**O**nly for a moment had Christopher Chance been on guard. Admittedly, the sound of the elevator humming up to his loft had the man reaching for the gun under his pillow but reasoning soon kicked in. It couldn't be Winston, or at least it was very unlikely to be his overprotective detective, seeing how the larger man had bowed out not even an hour earlier to retire to his apartment. That left really only one choice. It wasn't often that Guerrero made house calls but not completely uncommon.

Chance tossed the comforter aside and pulled himself from bed to greet the late night visitor. Carmine watched him for a moment from beside his now vacant spot before jumping down to follow. The two made their way towards the lift without a sound but the large dog hesitated after a few steps, whimpering and backing away.

The former-assassin halted with a frown, his companion's behavior once more setting his senses on high alert.

As the elevator came into view, Chance slid towards the shadows splaying across his apartment walls. The individual within the hoist was simply a silhouette leaning heavily against the siding, unmoving for a moment. Then the door was opened and Guerrero stumbled in to the streetlight's glow.

"Hey, Dude," he smirked ruefully towards the shadows. Chance bit off the sound that was forming in the back of this throat as he stepped forward to get a better look at the newcomer.

Guerrero had been beaten. Bad.

A dark, swollen bruise was making its presence known on his left cheek and around his eye. His lips were cracked and bloody, and he swayed in an almost drunken manner to try and maintain his balance, even as his vision blacked out for a moment. He crumbled to the floor just outside the elevator.

Hoping to catch his friend, Chance rushed forward only seconds too late. Gingerly, he moved the smaller man but the other didn't make a sound as he was rolled limply on to his back. Taking inventory of the injuries he could see, Chance decided he had to move quicky – Guerrero was hurt and he could have been followed.

Luckily, it didn't take the highly trained man long to lockdown his apartment and secure the perimeter; soon, he was digging through his extensive first aid kit.

Guerrero didn't resist as he was stripped down to his boxer briefs and thoroughly examined. Tending to each wound would be extensive; he had obtained several broken ribs, the etchings of a serrated blade, the bruises of another's heavy limbs, and the commonplace markings of a brawl. Chance wasn't exactly sure if he'd fought back, the man was more likely to "take the beating then kill you in your sleep", but he was strangely relieved at the bruising and blood on the other man's knuckles. Still, for now, he had a job to do.

Every mark was cleaned, the sting of rubbing alcohol barely stirring the injured man. Two troublesome stab wounds were efficiently stitched and several others fastened with butterfly bandages. Chance silently washed away the drying blood, only once feeling the dazed blue eyes clouded with pain trying to watch him.

As he finished up, the blonde sat back, marveling at his handy work and wondering only briefly on the fate of Guerrero's glasses. Exhaustion settled on him and quickly giving Carmine, who was dozing against their guest, a pat on the head, Chance retreated to his couch in hopes to catch some sleep before Winston's early morning attempts to roust him came due. Only, anger had set up home in the pit of his stomach; he was revving for action and wanted to hunt down the piece of filth that had gone after Guerrero.

**I**t was in-between jobs that Chance soon found himself walking the grimy streets that Guerrero had been patrolling for information. A newcomer, a foolish rookie who hadn't heard of or believed the smaller man's threats, had taken him down. It filled the former-assassin with rage that some idiot could think he had gotten away way the act; that he had taken Guerrero down and didn't fear retaliation. And retaliation was what Chance wanted most.

Guerrero was still recovering from the beat down back at his apartment.

Chance frowned, his fingers itching for action. It hadn't been hard hunting down the hired muscle. Already, there was gossip spreading that he had brought the 'private consultant' to his knees. It would be so easy to make him simply disappear – Chance had once been very good with things like that. Still, he knew that Guerrero would take pleasure in his reprisal, so the blonde decided on another tactic.

He haunted the man, following the thug in his spare time, sure that his presence was known. It was almost like an old, movie cliché: standing in the corner lamplight near his apartment, watching him in the diner from across the street.

Still, it worked. The thug was on edge; chasing after Chance only the first few times, now simply letting the feeling of unease grow. Revenge was on its way, he could see the blonde watching him, waiting, but never striking. It was exactly what the guardian-for-hire wanted, fear instilled. He had to repeat to himself "nobody deserves to die," but his motto was wearing thin, and he wouldn't stop Guerrero when the man was recovered enough to strike back.

It was getting late, the sun starting to dip behind the skyline. His target had returned home, glancing uneasily at the corner where Chance stood as he passed by the window.

With luck, Guerrero was still recuperating back at the office and Winston would be preparing for the interview they had in the morning.

Pizza seemed like a good idea.

Chance watched the window for a moment longer before disappearing into the shadows, content with his day, and ready for a good evening.

Pizza seemed like a very good idea.


End file.
